


The Letter 'F'

by orphan_account



Series: Two Brothers Holmes [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Brotherly Affection, Childhood, Gen, Kid - Freeform, Kid!Lock, Kidlock, Love, M/M, Slipper, Spanking, Swearing, Teenlock, cursing, learning, mouth washing, teen, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:07:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2510477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has picked up a word from Mycroft. Who eventually stops him from saying it - Mrs Holmes, Mr Holmes or Mycroft?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Letter 'F'

“Sherlock, do you need me to help you tie your laces, or do you have it?”

Three years old, chubby, and undeniably obstinate, the curly-haired mayhem looked up at his father.

“I can fucking do it!”

Mr Holmes sighed heavily, not for the first time that week. Somehow, Sherlock had picked up the f-bomb and was using it in every situation possible, but especially those of anger. It was really quite remarkable how he had applied the word...

“That word is naughty, Sherlock – don't say it.”

Sherlock looked inquiringly upwards, shoes already tied, and in his tiny, toddler voice asked, “Which fucking word?”

“The 'f' one.”

Sherlock grinned impishly. “Flower? French? Fauna?”

“The 'fu' one.”

“Fumble? Funky? Fuss?”

“Fuck! It's a naughty word and if I hear you say it again, you'll regret it.”

Sherlock's wide, clear eyes blinked innocently, but he gamely jumped up. “Can I have chocolate when we get to the shop?”

Mr Holmes smiled and ruffled the hair of his youngest son. “Just because you can't say the f word, you can still say please.”

“ _Please_ can I have chocolate when we get to the shop?”

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was asleep in his father's arms, a half-melted bar of chocolate clutched in his chubby baby fist.

* * *

 

Of course, Mr Holmes knew that the peace would not last for very long. As soon as they got home, he tried to put Sherlock down for a rare nap, and well aware that his wife would fuss if there was chocolate all over the bed sheets, he tried to ease the melted mass from his son's hand.

This was a mistake.

“Daddy, what _are_ you doing?” he suddenly squeaked, wriggling up into a sitting position and snatching the globules of chocolate back again. “Fuck off!”

There was a moment of silence between the two Holmes males during which Sherlock processed his actions and Mr Holmes tried to claw back to his own childhood for a suitable punishment to deter his son from swearing. Finally, he hit upon a memory of himself aged around six, having his mouth thoroughly washed out with soap.

Bingo.

“Sherlock, that's a bad word and I told you not to use it! Come on, get up out of bed.”

Looking much more the three (almost four) year old that he was all of a sudden, Sherlock snuggled down into bed, turning away from his father. “No!” Mr Holmes felt himself soften greatly. He always felt slightly guilty punishing one or other of his sons, especially as they tended to revert back to standard child behaviour rather than the aloofness of mini genii they usually held. Forcing himself to harden his heart – after all, he had told Sherlock not to say it before as well as warning him that morning – he grabbed Sherlock under his arms and lifted him up easily, before taking him to the bathroom, unable to resist comforting his son somewhat. Carefully, he locked the door before placing Sherlock onto the toilet. Instantly, the boy leapt up and ran towards the door, jumping up to the lock and bolt but finding himself still unable to reach them. With a sigh, Mr Holmes lifted his youngest son up and placed him into the bathtub, grateful that it was an old fashioned one with a very deep bowl. Even if Sherlock flung himself at the wall, he couldn't get out.

“Sherlock, you knew you weren't meant to say that word – I know that mummy has told you not to say it before, and I have too. I warned you earlier, didn't I?”

Sherlock flopped down onto the bathtub bottom, staring up at his father. “Daddy, please don't. I forgot.”

“Well then, this'll help you to remember. You've forgotten plenty of times over the last week.”

Mr Holmes fumbled in a bathroom cupboard before finding a flannel, which he briefly wetted and then rubbed with soap. In his heart of hearts he knew that Sherlock would barely taste it: unlike his own parents, who shoved the whole bar into his mouth, he wasn't cruel. He just wanted to give him a sharp little reminder.

“Open up, Sherlock.”

Obstinate as ever, Sherlock shook his head. 

“Where did you hear the word, Sherlock?”

“From Myc-”

Sherlock's words stopped when Mr Holmes firmly grabbed his jaw and rubbed the flannel around the inside of his mouth, coating his tongue and inner cheeks lightly with the soap. For a moment, Sherlock stared up at his father, utterly confused at the fact he had just been tricked, before thrashing about wildly, only his face staying still due to his father's gentle hold. He held his son for a good minute, feeling more horrible and guiltier by the second, before taking the flannel out of his mouth and turning the sink tap on, pulling Sherlock over to it and letting him rinse his mouth thoroughly. When he finally seemed to be done, Mr Holmes turned the tap off.

“Sherlock, don't say that word again. You knew it was naughty and you said it anyway. If I hear you say it again, I'll tell mummy and she'll deal with you instead.”

Sherlock nodded slightly tearfully, before nuzzling his head into his father's shoulder and grabbing him tightly, his fingers digging into Mr Holmes.

* * *

 

The dinner table that evening was very quiet. Twelve year old Mycroft was stabbing his dinner moodily with his fork, Mr Holmes was staring distantly off out of the window, Mrs Holmes was snapping at the slightest thing and little five year old Sherlock was bored out of his  _mind_ . All four were still clad in respectful black clothing, with Mycroft having to tug at his collar at regular intervals...he had really packed on the pounds since he was eleven, the last time he had been required to wear a suit. 

“Mother?”

“Yes, Mycroft?”

“May I leave the table and get changed?”

Mrs Holmes sighed heavily, glaring at him. “You're so disrespectful, Mycroft! How dare you interrupt dinner all so that you can change your clothes? What is this, a fashion show?”

Mycroft blushed heavily: he was very unused to being scolded, especially unfairly, and while he knew it had been a hard day on his mother, that was no excuse.

“Sorry, mother. It's just that my suit is awfully tight and there's no point wearing it now that we've left the funeral...”

Mycroft's words tapered off when he saw the expression on his mother's face. Grabbing him by the shoulder, she yanked him into standing and smacked him hard on the bottom, before shouting,

“Today is a day of respect! You'll wear those clothes until you go to bed!”

Mycroft spun around, looking scandalised, and was about to argue when Mr Holmes laid a gentle hand on Mrs Holmes's shoulder.

“Sit down, love – Mycroft's suit is a bit small, that's all, there's no need for you to react like that. Come on, darling, sit down.”

Looking slightly less furious, Mrs Holmes sank back down into her chair, before suddenly bursting into tears. Mycroft fled, one hand creeping back to his bottom and various mumbles escaping his lips. Sherlock, meanwhile, had discovered a delightful game. If he flicked his spoon just so, he could get a pea to go all the way down his throat and into his tummy without him swallowing. Not particularly illuminating, perhaps, but more entertaining than the fuss between mummy and Mycroft. It was good to focus his energies into perfecting another skill. If, for example, he suffered from a stroke and lost the ability to swallow properly, this would be a very useful skill.

* * *

 

“Mycroft! Mycroft! Come back down here!”

Five minutes had passed, and Mycroft had still not re-emerged in different clothes. Mrs Holmes managed to shout just at the wrong moment, however – just as Sherlock was flinging a pea down his throat. Jerking his head, the pea lodged in his gullet, causing him to choke loudly, trying to lubricate the pea from his throat with slippery mucus. Mrs Holmes turned from her shouts and instead gently thumped Sherlock on the back, causing the pea to dislodge and fly across the table, landing with a soft  _pluhhft_ on Mycroft's plate.

“Fuck!” Sherlock coughed, massaging his own throat, before freezing and turning sharply towards his own father, who had blanched as soon as he said it.

“What did you just say, Sherlock?”

Mrs Holmes didn't wait for an answer. Grasping Sherlock by the shoulder, she propelled him out of the tense dining room and upstairs towards his bedroom. Well, Mycroft's bedroom actually – his own was being used as a storage room for dead nanny's and dead grandad's things (dead nanny and dead grandad were already how Sherlock thought of his mother's parents) for a while. Slamming the door open, Mrs Holmes and Sherlock came across the sight of Mycroft glowering at himself in the mirror, squeezing his stomach fat. 

“Mycroft, get back downstairs to dinner _now –_ Sherlock and I will be back downstairs once we've had a little discussion!”

Mycroft fled, well aware of what a 'discussion' entailed, even if he had been on the receiving end of very few. Without much preamble, she sat down on Mycroft's bed and lugged Sherlock over her lap, landing a flurry of fast smacks to his black-clad bottom.

“You do _not_ say that word, Sherlock!”

Sherlock immediately began to wriggle, trying to get away from his mother, who was both irrational and enraged at that particular moment. Grabbing her son's trousers, she yanked them down along with his underwear and continued smacking him very quickly and with a peppered sharpness. Sherlock squirmed, grabbing Mycroft's blanket in his five year old fists and squeezing tightly. The smacking was over almost as soon as it began, when Mrs Holmes suddenly froze, before scooping her son up tightly in her arms. 

“Oh, Sherlock, I'm sorry, that wasn't fair.”

Once again, Mrs Holmes began to cry, while Sherlock hugged her tightly, his still bare bottom red and smarting. The two clung to one another, and Sherlock privately decided not to swear again, at least not when his mother was already upset.

* * *

 

“Fight! Fight! Fight!”

Mycroft sighed heavily as he swept down the corridor towards the source of mischief. Some kids were evidently having a fight, probably a rather large one judging by the size of the crowd around them.

“Excuse me, prefect coming through!”

The crowd immediately parted; lanky eighteen year old Mycroft was known throughout the school as one of the strictest and most intimidating prefects in existence. In the centre of them were two boys, one about fifteen and one about eleven. The fifteen year old was pinning the eleven year old down all while hitting him in the stomach.

“Exc- _uuuse me._ ”

The fifteen year old leapt up and stared with unashamed terror at Mycroft, while the eleven year old scrambled up and then backed away as fast as he could.

Sherlock.

Of bloody course.

“To the prefect's common room. Now.”

When the fifteen year old hesitated, Mycroft immediately shouted, “Now!”

Both scrambled after him.

* * *

 

“Harrison, explain, now.”

Jack Harrison, the fifteen year old, was looking incredibly anxious. “Sherlock was being a dick, he was telling my mates how their parents were splitting up and horrible fake things about them and so I sorted him out.”

Mycroft smirked for a millisecond before dragging on the serious prefect face that he had long had perfected. There were no other prefects in the room, and so it was totally empty except for the three of them. Sherlock was staring off at the wall, tapping one of his feet anxiously. 

“Holmes?”

“Himself and his friends were being delightful enough to insult me, calling me gay and annoying. Being gay is no bad thing and I probably am annoying, but they were being particularly aggravating. So I began to observe.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Harrison, six of the slipper. Holmes, three. Harrison, assume the position.”

Harrison took his slippering very stoically, staying firmly in position and refusing to make any noise. As soon as he was dismissed, Mycroft turned on Sherlock.

“Fighting, Sherlock, really?”

Sherlock grinned. “I wish you could have been there a moment earlier, brother mine, I was destroying him until one of his friends got involved.”

“Look, I'm not going to slipper you. Just put on a good show for the imbeciles.”

“Thank fuck for that.” Sherlock grinned. “I thought you were going to beat my fucking arse.”

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up. “I believe both father and mother have had discussions with you about that word, Sherlock.”

“Fuck that. Everyone my age uses it.”

Mycroft tapped the slipper in his hand against the chair in a warning fashion. “Stop using that word right now, or I'll deal with you and tell mother.”

“Don't be so hypocritical!” Sherlock suddenly spat. “I learnt the word off of you in the first place!”

Mycroft's nose crinkled in confusion. “When?”

“I was three. I heard you say it in your bedroom when you had some lad from school over. I picked it up.”

Mycroft shook his head, smiling a little. “I don't use it any more, do I? That was a one-off incident, he tried to kiss me and it surprised me. I was  _ten_ .”

“I'm _eleven_.” Sherlock patronisingly replied. “And besides, if someone tried to kiss me I wouldn't mind.”

Mycroft shook his head wearily. “Just don't say it any more. Or I really  _will_ get you with this slipper.”

Sure enough, after that, Sherlock only said it in extreme circumstances. 

 

 


End file.
